


Roots

by SapphireSmoke



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Humor, Mild Sexual Content, Purple Hawke, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 15:13:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2314037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireSmoke/pseuds/SapphireSmoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s those blasted stones, the one’s sitting at the bottom of her stomach every time Hawke looks at her, every time she feels herself losing her wings and growing roots in their stead. She’s being weighed down, planting and intertwining with everything that this place has become, and Isabela fears that if she’s not careful, soon she’ll never be able to fly again at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roots

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** [BellaRei713](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/641948/BellaRei713)  
>  **Banner Image Credit:** [Flauschtraut @ DeviantArt](http://flauschtraut.deviantart.com/art/Before-heading-out-for-a-new-adventure-313971218)

There’s a weight in her stomach that wasn’t there before; like a stone sinking to the depths of the ocean, its decent is heavy and slow, and Isabela agonizes over the nature of its arrival. It is new, unpleasant and uncomfortable, and there’s little sense to its purpose. She should feel satisfied; filled and sated in every meaning of the word, and yet her stomach twists in uncomfortable knots as though she had chugged a bottle of stale ale from the slums of Antiva. It makes her wonder what has changed, and for a brief moment before she outright dismisses it, she is horrified to realize that it may be herself.

Instead, Isabela blames anything but that, but mostly her. _Her,_ with her crooked smile and inappropriately placed humor. _Her_ , who’s eyes so resemble the blackened pearls she once stole from an Orlesian merchant on the shores of northern Tevinter; rich and beautiful and captivatingly distracting. Distracting, yes, that was what she is, so much that Isabela sometimes forgets herself, forgets who and what she is; a bird with wings over the expanse of the horizon, and not a tree with roots planted in dampened soil.

A night of sex and debauchery, a night like any other where she and Hawke stink of sweat and pleasure, where they press bruises against each other’s skin and whisper filthy promises that are soon to be carried out in spades. Afterwards, lips find the back of her neck, and Hawke breathes out words that feel feather light, yet bring a hidden weight that Isabela hadn’t known was there until it presses firmly into her chest, constricting her air and bringing spots to her vision. “One day I’m going to wake up and realize that it was a damned privilege, getting my heart broken by someone like you.”

It’s a compliment, an understanding, and an admission all in one, and Isabela’s feet don’t hit the floor the moment the words are released. They should have; it was an opening to run, to prove Hawke and herself right, and yet instead she turns over, her fingers curling inside the mage’s body as she encourages breathy sighs and deep moans to be released instead of words that make her head swim more than the most potent of dwarven mead. She never responds to the admission, and Hawke never brings it up again. Regardless, it plants the seed inside of her.

And it grows.

The months wear onwards, and Varric tells stories of the Champion capturing the heart of the dreaded Pirate Queen from the coast of Rivain. Aveline makes an offhanded comment that one’s heart does not rest between their thighs, and Isabela is quick to tell her that if Donnic isn’t meeting her emotional needs, she’ll gladly find her a place astride her face and give her all the love she could stand to swallow. It earns her an exasperated eye roll and a remark that she would loathe spending the coin on the clinic visit afterwards, but her mouth twists, like she’s suppressing an amusement she doesn’t want to admit to. She’s growing on her. They all are, on each other, on this place. They’re each placing their roots, but not her. No, Isabela is free like a bird, not rooted like a tree, and so she convinces herself she’s nesting, as it lacks the permanency that pirate’s do not have. Nests can be destroyed, and rebuilt somewhere new.

And yet when she finally destroys that nest and flies away to Anywhere-But-Here, she finds herself returning to the same branch not a day later to build it anew. Hawke nearly gets herself killed for her, for defending her honor and her freedom and anything else she could manage under her banner of affection and clinical insanity, and Isabela wants to beat her senseless for the sentiment. Yet instead she mopes and drinks, and wonders for the umpteenth time why she came back, when all it did was cause that stone in the pit of her stomach to liken to a boulder.

Hawke finds her later in the Hanged Man, hunched over the bar with a mug of piss-tasting brew in her hand, and Isabela doesn’t know how to apologize for leaving, or how to explain why she returned. _You_ is the simple answer, but that promises things she cannot, and brings more confusion than answers. It shouldn’t be her, it shouldn’t be anyone, and yet instead of being halfway to Ostwick on the deck of a ship with the wind in her hair and the relic in her hand, she was standing _here_ and going about everything completely _wrong._

“You look like shit,” Hawke says in greeting, and Isabela can’t help but chuckle at that, as a large expanse of Hawke’s skin is beginning to turn a sickening purple from the bruising; one of her eyes is swelled shut, and each step she makes is now accompanied by a distinctive limp. Apparently, finding her in this rundown tavern took precedence over seeing Anders; Isabela doesn’t know whether that’s flattering or incredibly stupid. Perhaps both.

“If that’s the case, then there isn’t a word for what you look like right now,” Isabela responds, cocking her head to appraise her lover. “Battered, perhaps; like a whore’s cunt after her last go of the night, although you’re still much more appealing than a used up cock rag, so I may have to reevaluate.”

“Heroic?” Hawke offers with a smirk, and it’s easy, normal; not at all like how it should be after everything that had happened. “Apparently that’s what people are going with; I prefer it to looking like a cock rag, in any case, although I see the similarities.” A beat, then, with more words that sound as light as a feather, but bear the weight of a crashing wave she mentions, “You came back.”

“Well I realized leaving without giving Aveline proper instruction on how to load Donnic’s cannon was bad form. That woman could do with a proper ramrodding; you know, just fire ‘em up and get the bang of her life.” Isabela’s lips twist into a smirk that matches Hawke’s. “Shit, that was a golden metaphor, I could go all night. You ever wonder if she tops?”

“What’s that got to do with cannons?”

“It doesn’t, it’s just a musing. All big and burly like she is, high on that little Guard Captain power trip of hers; if she’s not treating him like her subordinate in bed it’s a wasted opportunity, I tell you. Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it.”

“I’m sure Aveline would be flattered to know you think of her naked so often,” Hawke answers, amusement in her tone as they both know that that thought would no doubt keep Aveline up at night, and not for any reason that’s _good._ “And I’m not answering that other thing.”

“So that would be a yes,” Isabela deduces, and the expression on Hawke’s face is enough confirmation. “It’s the uniform, isn’t it? I think it’s the uniform.”

“So this is what we’re doing then? Debating the sex appeal of our companions instead of talking about anything that matters? I just want to make sure before I say anything that causes you to start musing the size of Varric’s cock, or dwarf appendage in general.”

“You say that like you actually believe I haven’t fucked a dwarf,” Isabela responds with a raised brow, keeping it light despite the discomfort she suddenly feels at being so blatantly called out. But perhaps it was a bit obvious, going on this tangent at the first sign of anything real or honest; but she’s not too good at either, and no matter how many times she rehearsed this inevitable conversation in her mind, she’s been unable to decide how to approach this. She’d much rather Hawke just take her atop one of the tables whilst Norah balks at the lewd display and just leave it at that; it would be simple, uncomplicated, and everything else Isabela craves that this thing between them would be.

“I’m sure the list of species you’ve bedded is very impressive,” Hawke concedes, before an abrupt curiosity overshadows the conversation she wants to have, and she can’t help herself from asking, “Qunari?”

“Andraste’s flaming tits, _no_ ,” Isabela exclaims, actually horrified by the thought of it; which is a feat in and of itself really, as nothing much fazes her anymore. “Haven’t you heard? Their cocks are like battering rams; tear my insides to shreds. Shame though, I really like those horns.” Hawke wrinkles her nose in distaste, and Isabela smirks because she’s only kidding. Sort of. Sometimes she gets drunk and has questionable musings, so sue her.

“Female Qunari,” Hawke reasons, although probably against her better judgment, as she still looks rather scandalized by the thought. 

“Do they even exist? I’ve never seen one.”

“They must; maybe they’re hidden away? Or perhaps they just look like the men.”

“Either way, I don’t think Qunari men _or_ women are very fond of either of us right now,” Isabela points out, her gaze taking in the Arishok’s handiwork that likened Hawke’s skin to a darkened plum, rather than the milky white color it usually bore. It churns her stomach like butter, twists her insides as she remembers Hawke standing in front of her and telling the Qunari leader that he could not have her. She loses eye contact then, and her words come out muttered as she continues, “Speaking of, I… thank you. What you did does not go unappreciated. It was _stupid,_ surely, but… appreciated.”

“Well it was stupid of you to even come back, wasn’t it?” Hawke counters, resting her elbows on the bar next to Isabela as she watches the woman take another drink of the foul-tasting liquid. It burns its way down her throat, much like Hawke burns her way through her veins; a part of Isabela hates herself for enjoying it. “So I’d say we’re even, as far as unintelligence goes. A perfect, stupid match, you and I.”

A brief touch of their hands and Isabela pulls away like she’s been burned. And it’s ridiculous really, as she came back to this place solely for Hawke, and yet the instinct to run is so deeply ingrained in her she could no more separate it than the salt from the sea. She sighs, the sound long and loud. “The same in that way perhaps, but different in many others. ‘The Champion of Kirkwall,’ did you know that’s what they’re calling you now?”

Hawke laughs, it’s warm and easy, and Isabela realizes how much she craves the sound of it. It reverberates within her, fills her with something she doesn’t know how to name. “For defending my slattern bed maiden? They’ll give titles for anything these days.”

“For saving the city, you barmy git; I’m sure they care less about the whereabouts of my cunt, at least those who haven’t had the pleasure yet.”

Hawke waves it off. “A happy accident, I assure you. Your cunt was the only thing on my mind. _That_ , my dear Isabela, is something worth waging war over.” She leans towards her then, all heaving bosom and smoky eyes, and for a moment, Isabela gets lost in her charm. Hawke’s always been a bit of a sweet talker, could take a miser for his last coin should the need ever arise, and Isabela finds it difficult not to appreciate it.

Fingers curl around the belt holding the mage’s robes together, and the corners of Isabela’s mouth quirk as she tells her, “A bold faced lie, that is, but a flattering one none the less. And you _know_ what they say about flattery…”

“That it’ll flip you tits over arse? Because that’s what I was going for.”

“You need to see Anders before we play that game, sweet thing. Wouldn’t want to break you even further; I still have uses for you yet.”

“Thank the Maker, because the way you’ve been acting it’s like you already have one foot out the door again,” Hawke responds, the words coming out slightly sarcastic because she _knows_ , and Isabela’s grip slackens as she looks away. She wants to tell her that it’s complicated, but she knows it’s an excuse and not a reason. She wants to tell her that birds don’t lay roots, and yet she had returned, and so she could no longer say for certain anymore that she wasn’t a tree like the rest of them. She feels lost, like she doesn’t know who she is anymore, and it makes her head swim so much that Isabela knows she needs to grasp onto something solid, and yet Hawke seems to be the only fixture in arm’s reach. It’s all rather disorienting. 

“You came back,” Hawke mentions again, and it bears more weight than it should. “And although I’m sure Aveline will appreciate your willingness to pass on your knowledge and technique on how to give a proper blowjob, we both know that’s not why you returned.”

“No,” Isabela admits, and the word sticks in her throat.

“Care to enlighten?”

 _No,_ is the automatic answer, but it doesn’t fall from Isabela’s lips. Instead she sighs, pushing herself off of the bar. “ _‘The Champion of Kirkwall’_ ,” she repeats, and it sounds almost like a swear. Her brow furrows and the corners of her mouth crease, and Hawke’s suddenly looking at her with an expression of utter perplexion, as it didn’t exactly answer her question.

“So you’ve mentioned.”

“So look at the lot,” Isabela says, nodding her head towards the lowlifes in the bar, their eyes fixated on Hawke with whispers upon their lips. It was like Andraste herself was now walking the bloody earth. “The sun hasn’t even set on the day, and everyone in this piss and shit place knows who you are.”

“I’m going to assume you have a point to all this, and aren’t just half-cocked off your arse right now. You can still look at me straight, anyway.”

Isabela’s head swam, but it wasn’t from the ale. Her fingers curl around the back of her neck, tugging gently on the hair there as she exhales another sigh, this one a little more frustrated than the last. Did she really not see? “So you’re _somebody_ now, Hawke; and what am I?”

“A foul-mouthed pirate with an incredible set of tits and eyes to get lost in?” Hawke ventures a guess. It’s flattering, but exasperating. The woman can rarely be serious. “That’s what I tell all my friends, anyway. Also the part about the magnificence of your cunt being able to wage wars, but I mentioned that already.”

“They’ll probably erect a sodding statue in your honor,” Isabela continues, and there’s a bitterness to her voice that can’t be ignored. “Parties in your name, nobles tripping over their cocks to get you to kiss their babies or some other such inane ritual of the wealthy; and yet you’d really be so quick to have some lying, thieving snake on your arm? People would talk.”

“I’m sorry,” Hawke interrupts, a disbelieving laugh falling from her lip as she stares at Isabela like she can’t make heads or tails of her. “Are you actually telling me right now that you care what people would think?”

“Maker’s testicles, _no,_ ” Isabela scoffs, because that would be ridiculous. She’s flashed uptight nobles for kicks just to watch their arsehole clench around the sticks they’ve got wedged up there; that wasn’t the problem. “But I’m not the one who’s changed.”

“Isabela, they’ve given me a _title,_ not a new sodding head. I’ll bring whoever I damn well please to any of their rudding parties; may even show up naked, just to see the looks on their faces.” Hawke smirks and, Maker, she’s really contemplating it. Well, Isabela would be a fool to miss _that._ “Is that really why you’ve got your smalls all bunched up your arse right now? Because titles are bullshit ways of labeling people when you don’t care to know who they really are.”

Isabela knows that; has been called ‘whore’ and ‘pirate hag’ enough times to realize people only did so when they were unable to look past the surface of things. Hawke’s more than a Champion, as she is more than a pirate or a slag. Still, perhaps in the end it was nothing more than an excuse of her own, a reason for leaving once more, when she had only just returned. It’s those blasted stones, the one’s sitting at the bottom of her stomach every time Hawke looks at her, every time she feels herself losing her wings and growing roots in their stead. She’s being weighed down, planting and intertwining with everything that this place has become, and Isabela fears that if she’s not careful, soon she’ll never be able to fly again at all.

“I’m no one’s fixture, is the point; Champion or otherwise,” Isabela explains, repeating something she’s said a thousand times in a thousand different ways; she’s certain Hawke’s gotten the point, but whether the woman believes her or not is another matter entirely. Some days, she’s not even sure she believes herself anymore. “Although I suppose the last is a moot point, given your stance on it. But given all that’s happened, I thought you should know.”

“I’ve never asked you to be a fixture, Isabela; all I’m after is using your massive breasts as pillows and having a little dirty fun with you now and again,” Hawke tells her with a chuckle, tone light and unmeaningful, despite the weight of the lie. Isabella knows; she’s known since the moment Hawke told her that she would consider it a privilege to get her heart broken by her that she had fallen, and yet because the woman knows her so well, Hawke constantly dismisses her own feelings in favor of Isabela’s comfort with all of this. It makes that seed planted within her grow even more; Hawke – Marian – she’s good to her, despite Isabela having given her no reason to be.

“But that still doesn’t answer my question.”

Isabela is pulled from her thoughts and her brow furrows. “What?” Hadn’t it? She thought it had.

“That’s why you still have one foot out the door, but not why you came back,” Hawke points out, and damn her, all eyes and breasts; she’d make a mute start singing hymns. It’s bloody irritating. Still, Isabela has a habit of talking and talking and never saying anything of worth, and perhaps for once she should. If nothing else, she probably owes Hawke that much.

“ _You_ , alright? But don’t get it to your head; I also missed Fenris’ liquor cabinet and I didn’t want Merrill to cry. Plus the whole thing with Aveline and blowjobs; I wasn’t lying about that.”

Hawke smirks, but her eyes beam. She’s happy with the admittance, and Isabela wishes her happiness didn’t make _her_ so happy, as it’s certain to cause nothing but trouble. “See, was that so hard? I don’t know why you insist on making everything so difficult; it’s not a crime to have friends, you know.”

Perhaps not, but it was a devastating one to fall for them.

There are parties, as she predicted; it doesn’t take long for the city to insist that Hawke shows up to every blooming one of them, and they’re boring and tedious and most of the time she and Isabela spend more time defiling other people’s estates than mingling with those deemed ‘more important’ than the pirate the Champion insists on having on her arm. And then there was that one time, that ale-induced _wouldn’t it be funny if they really did show up naked,_ and suddenly they’re not invited to important parties anymore. It’s one of Varric’s favorite stories to tell, and he’s telling it now to Aveline’s husband in animated detail as Isabela occupies the only type of gathering that will have her anymore that doesn’t involve whores or drunkards.

Although perhaps if the night goes well, with any luck there will soon be both. Something to aspire to, at any rate.

“You clean up well,” Aveline compliments her as she approaches, before giving Isabela a once over and amending, “ _Considering._ ” Her tone lacks the malicious bite it once had however, the years they’ve spent together turning their insults into nothing more than routine jibes, and Isabella smirks. “Although honestly, perhaps I’m just thankful that you and Hawke decided to actually wear _clothes_ to my Solstice gathering; I hear it’s a rarity these days. You’re a terrible influence on her, you know.”

Isabela laughs, because the very idea that she influences Hawke to do _anything_ is utterly ridiculous. Flattering, surely; but ridiculous. “Oh believe me, I will gladly take credit where credit’s due, but Hawke? That woman was _born_ depraved.” It’s why she likes her, truth be told; most have to be corrupted by Isabela’s hand, but not Hawke. “It’s honestly down right impressive sometimes, the things she’ll come up with. Just last week we were visiting Sebastian in the Chantry, and the choir boy was taking too long flogging himself for his sins – or whatever it is that he does when we’re not looking – and so she took this candlestick and a decanter of wine from off the alter and—”

Aveline immediately looks horrified, knowing exactly what direction this conversation is about to go in, and holds up her hand to stop Isabela’s words. “I’ll give you fifty silvers if you do not finish that sentence. I’d rather not go to bed tonight with more unsavory images swirling around in my head; you’re already responsible for too many.”

“What’s unsavory about candles and wine?” Merrill asks, having approached them from behind, tiny voice filled with unbridled curiosity. “It sounds rather romantic to me.” She looks up at her, the perfect picture of adorable naivety, and Isabela wishes she could keep her in her pocket. How such innocence is portrayed in a feared Blood Mage, she will never understand; but it’s a contradiction that Isabela craves to have within arm’s reach, as it reminds her that the world isn’t as black and white as many seem to think.

“Oh, _many_ things can become unsavory, Kitten; you only have to try hard enough.”

“How inspiring,” Aveline deadpans, and the thoroughly unamused look on her face is easily one of Isabela’s favorite things. In all honesty, lately she’s considered the day wasted if she hasn’t gotten under Aveline’s skin at least once. It’s important to have goals, after all; Aveline herself told her that once, and Isabela took it to heart, although perhaps not in the way the Guard Captain would have liked. Still, progress is progress. 

“So it wasn’t romantic?” Merrill asks, sounding disappointed. Lonely, perhaps, and trying to live vicariously; but what the little bit of a thing seems to want for herself doesn’t exactly align with what she and Hawke actually are, and so Isabella tells her the truth of it.

“Romance is for lonely sods and love-stricken fools; it’s suffocating and gets you into more trouble than it’s worth, Kitten. Believe me, it’s better to have no part in it.”

Aveline snorts, not even bothering to contain her amused disbelief. “Are you saying you’re neither of those things then?” She laughs then, completely at her expense, and Isabela’s lips turn down into a frown. “My, my, we _do_ like to delude ourselves, don’t we?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean, big girl?” Isabela asks defensively, not expecting such a comment to fall from Aveline’s lips. Out of everyone here, she would think _Aveline_ would believe her incapable of such a foolish feat; she certainly has enough comments about her being a complete floozy, after all. Love and romance do not exactly go hand in hand with sleeping around; at least not the last time Isabela checked, anyhow.

(Perhaps if it did she wouldn’t be so adverse to it, but that’s a musing for another time.)

Isabela laughs though and assumes the lesser of two evils, because it’s far easier than contemplating the other possibility. “Do you think I’m lonely now? Because I’ll gladly play the part for you if it means I get to see our very own human battering ram without any clothes on; you _do_ know how I’ve been curious about those abs of yours…”

“You spread your legs too much to be lonely, you heathen slag,” Aveline counters; and yes, alright, she does have a point, but Isabela was still hoping Aveline was stupid enough to believe otherwise. _Apparently_ she’s stupid enough to believe that Isabela is a love-stricken fool, so it wasn’t much of a stretch then, intelligence-wise. “Don’t deflect it; you know exactly what I mean. You and Hawke; it’s been years and you’re still here, still in her bed. That’s got to be a record for you. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Isabela doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re wrong.”

She’s right though; she’s spent more time in this place, in Hawke’s bed, than anywhere else. It’s a disturbing realization, and Isabela doesn’t understand how she hadn’t considered the implications of it before. Her throat suddenly feels tight and her tongue goes dry, and it’s sodding ridiculous really, as part of her _knows_ that she knew it, knew all of this, and yet like all things to do with Hawke and the haze she brings to her mind, she completely chose to ignore it. Roots and all; Isabela felt herself planting them awhile back, and the longer she stays, the more she finds permanence in a place that was only supposed to be temporary. It’s bloody terrifying, and yet she doesn’t run. 

Why doesn’t she run?

“Tsk. _Lies._ ” Aveline chides with a smirk, and Merrill giggles behind her hand at the completely indignant look that has crossed the pirate’s face. “Oh, don’t look at me like that; love suits you. Surprising, really, that anything would look good on a slattern; but there it is. You’re aware I know you haven’t been to the Rose in _months_ , I assume?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Isabela counters, her tone much more defensive than she means it to be, and so she immediately turns this around so that she’s on the offensive; it’s more comfortable that way. “And what were _you_ doing at the Rose? Checking up on me, were you, or were you finally trying to get that cork out of your arse? Because you know you don’t have to pay anyone to do that for you, my mannish little friend; I’d _gladly_ do it for free. Just bend right over and—” She makes an obscene gesture with her left hand and a popping noise with her mouth, and Aveline immediately looks scandalized by the implication. Isabela chuckles and leans against the wall, arms folding over her chest. “Just say the word.”

“Shut it. Must you always be so vulgar?” 

Yes, but Isabela knows it’s rhetorical anyway, and so all she answers with is a prideful smirk.

“You and I both know not a day’s gone by without you getting into some kind of trouble there and me having to personally deal with the repercussions of it. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice when I stopped getting the reports?” Aveline challenges, her tone causing Isabela to bristle because, what exactly is it that she’s implying here; that she’s suddenly become Hawke’s kept _pet?_ Because while she perhaps has been favoring quality over quantity lately, that’s not to say she’s changed; just last week her and Hawke brought Zevran into their bed and oh, what a _fun_ little adventure that turned out to be. A fun adventure that, certainly, did not resemble something as mundane as monogamy.

“Maybe I’ve just stopped getting into trouble,” Isabela lies easily, ignoring the hammering of her heart that pumps blood into her ears and makes her feel off-balanced. “You’re the one always saying I should grow up; perhaps I have. Do you really have so little faith in your own self-proclaimed wisdom? Pity.”

“I have little faith in your ability to _listen_ , Isabela; but no matter. Pretend all you want, it’s of no concern to me. I just thought you should know that I think it’s…” She hesitates for a second, and Isabela can smell uncomfortable emotional bonding from a mile away. It makes her fidget. “I know I’ve never said this to you before, but I think it’s… _admirable,_ that you came back. Not just because of what happened with the Qunari and it being entirely _your fault_ , but because of her… because of Hawke.”

“She adores you,” Aveline tells her, and it makes the rocks sink a little deeper in Isabela’s stomach. But there’s a warmth to them, a warmth that’s both comforting and yet entirely disconcerting, and Isabela tries desperately to ignore it, because it makes her wings lose their feathers one by one. “Maker knows _why,_ but she does, and what you’re doing; well, I would be lying if I said I didn’t think it was good for both of you, perhaps even that you deserve it. Happiness, or an abundance of pleasure; whatever it is you’d like to call it right now, as you so desperately try to come off as lacking all substance for reasons I’ll never understand.”

In the end though, it’s brushed off; her friend’s heartfelt words are brushed off with a well-placed innuendo and a sly smirk, because that’s just what she _does._ But it resonates; Aveline’s words resonate within her and make their home in Isabela’s chest, taunting her with a word that by all accounts should be a good thing. But happiness is not something Isabela thought she would ever find elsewhere than the middle of the open ocean, perched atop the crow’s nest with the wind in her hair and her arms towards the sky as she feels it, takes it, and makes it her own. Freedom; _that_ was her happiness, and yet as she and Hawke stumble into the mage’s stupidly expensive home after Aveline’s party, half-cocked off their arses as they try to hold one another upright, Hawke smiles at her and takes her hand, and Isabela smiles right back.

And it’s _happiness._ Frightening, wonderful, disgustingly stupid happiness, and Isabela isn’t quite sure how to hate the fact that she feels that way anymore. And what’s absolutely ridiculous about it is that it’s so simple; just fingers intertwined and laughter falling from their lips as they climb up the stairs and try to avoid minimal drunken-induced injuries, and yet Isabela is happy. She’s happy because of _her,_ just by the touch of her hand and the smile on her lips and Maker’s flaming arse, is this what it feels like to fall for someone, because suddenly she feels so—

Isabela’s toe catches on the rug, her knees hit the floor, and suddenly Hawke’s taking the tumble with her, hand gripped tightly to her own as she laughs. “Will you watch where you’re stepping, you clumsy tart? You’re—” Her laughter turns into an undignified snort then; it’s bloody fucking adorable and Isabela finds she hates it and loves it at the same time. She wants to kiss her then, kiss that smile right off her lips and keep it inside her forever, but Hawke’s pulling her to her feet and chiding her for her lack of proper maneuverability in a soft, teasing hiss. “You’re like a three-legged bull sometimes; probably woke the whole sodding house!”

Isabela wants to remind her that it wouldn’t be the first time (although perhaps the first that doesn’t include encouraging screams and headboards slamming against walls), but her throat has gone dry and all she can do is stare uselessly at the woman who’s still tugging on her hand, clumsily guiding her into the master bedroom. She doesn’t know what to do; she let herself think it, let herself acknowledge for a moment what it was that she was really feeling, and now there’s no undoing the damage it’s done. Thinking for a moment, even a fraction of a second that she was falling for Hawke made it _real;_ made it an honest to Andraste possibility, and Isabela can’t think. She can’t breathe. 

Maker _damn_ Aveline; first thing in the morning Isabela is sending four whores to the Guard Captain’s office for this, and she hopes it makes her just as perplexed and uncomfortable as she’s feeling right now. 

Hawke doesn’t notice; too pissed off her rear because of Donnic’s little obsession with fine Antivan wine, and it gives Isabela a moment to get her head out of her arse as the mage crosses the room to rummage through her drawers. “Have something for you,” she mentions; just an off-hand, mumbled comment as she searches relentlessly for whatever it may be, swaying a little on her feet as she tries to remain upright, and that at least jolts Isabela out of her stupor for a minute, because she wasn’t expecting any sort of gesture like that.

“…What?”

“You know, a present; a gift. A Solstice… thing; it’s what people do, isn’t it?” Hawke answers as she rummages through her drawer, chuckling a little like it was ridiculous for Isabela to assume otherwise. She sounds nervous though, and her laughter is accompanied by a small tremor. “Last I checked anyhow, although it has been awhile since I’ve partaken in the celebration. Aveline’s getting all domestic on us now though, reminded me that the world isn’t solely about beating down thugs in back alleys or drinking piss-ridden ale at the Hanged Man, despite how much of a well-rounded life that is.”

“What inspiring lives we lead,” Isabela responds with a hint of amusement, trying to ignore the strange feeling that’s made camp in her gut. She wishes it was the ale, but Hawke has always intoxicated her more than any brew. “People must be green with envy; ‘drunken vigilantes’ must be on the top of everyone’s aspiration lists. I know it was on mine, although minus the vigilante part; that part’s a bit boring.”

Hawke smirks after she has grabbed what she was looking for, placing her hand on the bedside table to keep herself upright as she does this little dramatic, drunken turn. “ _Well,_ I know that if I wasn’t me, I’d be jealous. Bedding someone like you… it’s a rare pleasure.”

Isabela laughs at that; she can’t help it. “If you think bedding me is ‘rare’, you obviously haven’t been listening.”

Hawke chuckles as she approaches her, present in hand. Her hips do this little wiggle when she walks that Isabela finds hard not to stare at; it’s a tad uncoordinated, yet sexy all the same. “Touché, you’re not exactly the prime pick for a virgin sacrifice. But there are quite a lot of people in this world and only so much time in a day; you couldn’t possibly do them all.” Hawke’s eyes find hers then, and the world around them goes still as the jokes stop and the mage’s words become heavy and honest; a moment’s clarity through their drunken haze. “And well, perhaps I’m just… flattered, that the most beautiful woman in all of the Free Marches has chosen to spend her time with me. Bedding you may not be a rarity, Isabela; but you… you are.”

Isabela’s stomach seems to clench in her gut, her chest tightening with an emotion she doesn’t know how to name. She turns away then, Hawke’s gaze becoming too much for her as she downplays the sentiment. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were after something; and yet here you stand, ready to give _me_ something instead. I think all that wine has made you arse-backwards, Hawke; might want to look into that.”

Something flickers in Hawke’s eyes, but it’s gone as soon as it’s appeared. “You really don’t know how to take a compliment, do you? The world won’t end, you know.”

“I know how to take a compliment; I get them on my tits all the time,” Isabela defends, despite even knowing herself that it’s flimsy at best. Still, Hawke’s compliment was of a different kind, and that made it strange. “Sometimes on my arse, though rarely on my face; I think people aren’t fond of the piercing, which is strange since they seem to like them on the other parts of my body.”

“Oh, I’m sorry; you don’t know how to take a compliment that isn’t entirely superficial then. And your face is gorgeous, anyone who doesn’t think so is either daft or blind.”

“I encompass and satisfy superficial pleasures, Hawke; that’s all that I am,” Isabela reminds her, her voice level despite her unrest with it. Once upon a time she had accepted it, but the more time she spends with Hawke, the less she knows who and what she is. “I’m not saying I’m not flattered by what you said, but I can’t help but think you’re delusional for looking at me like that. I’m not some kind of diamond amongst rocks, you know.”

“Well I’m going to have to respectfully disagree with that assessment, because I’ve been on every Hightown street and in every darkened hole, and you’re easily the only thing that shines in this piss-stain of a city.”

Isabela looks away, uncomfortable with the fluttering in the base of her abdomen. “Hawke…” The words are wrapped in warning, but only to hide the desire for more.

“Forget it,” Hawke brushes off, knowing she’s treading a dangerous line. “I ramble when I’ve had too much wine; it’s a character flaw. Here, just… take this.” She hands her the object she has in her hand then, and for the first time, Isabela actually gets a look at what it is. Her throat goes dry.

“What?” Hawke asks, suddenly sounding nervous as she takes in Isabela’s reaction. “What’s that look for; do you not like it? I thought it was—well I know it’s Rivaini, so I thought you might—”

“Do you know what this is?” Isabela asks, taking the talisman in her hands. Her thumb brushes the raised symbol on it, a strange emotion coursing through her like a crashing wave. She doesn’t know how to feel about this, and even less so now that it seems Hawke wasn’t aware of the true nature of the gift she presented her with.

“Some kind of talisman with a flower on it?” Hawke guesses, sounding less sure of herself by the minute. “But I’m guessing there’s more to it than that. Either that, or you’re really wary of flowers; which is now making me question some of the décor in this house.”

“It’s a Rivaini fertility talisman; and that is most definitely _not_ a flower. It’s symbolic, but still… look at it closely; that bit protruding, and the ‘petals’ are… well, you’re not Merrill, so I’m sure you get the picture.” She holds it out to Hawke, allowing the woman to take in what it was she was really seeing, and suddenly Hawke looks a little embarrassed.

“…Oh. Well, this is awkward.” She shifts the weight between her feet, chuckling nervously as she idly tugs at the base of her hair. “I wasn’t suggesting you go out and get yourself knocked up or anything; or that we should… you know, despite the biological impossibilities.”

Isabela chuckles, but it sounds just as nervous as Hawke is in that moment. “Believe me, that’s not what I thought you were implying; I think we both know motherhood doesn’t suit me. Nor you, for that matter, with all the trouble you routinely get yourself into.”

“Then why the look?”

“It’s…” Isabela begins, but quickly finds herself wondering if she should even explain; it may make this situation even more awkward than before, but words flow from her mouth regardless; the ale, perhaps, or just a case of rampant stupidity. Regardless, she finds herself admitting, “My mother was a Rivaini Seer – or, at least she pretended to be – and she would hand these out to women, claiming that if they wore them, that their wombs would be fruitful and their marriages blessed with many children. But for those who were unmarried…” Isabela looks down at the talisman in her hand as she turns, finding herself wandering towards the large mirror on the opposite side of the room as the continues, voice a little softer than before, “She told them that it could also be worn when a woman wished for… love.”

Silence, and Hawke seems to realize what kind of statement the talisman made, regardless of her intention or not. Isabela’s eyes catch the reflection in the mirror, watching Hawke shift the weight between her feet and rub the back of her neck awkwardly.

“Ah. Well, you… you don’t have to keep it, I just thought—”

But her words die out as Isabela, without much real thought as to what she was doing, reaches up behind her to clasp the talisman around her neck. It was instinctual, but once her brain catches up to what message she’s sending to the woman behind her, her fingers begin to tremble and she can’t catch the clasp. Hawke looks dumbfounded for a moment before she’s nearly tripping on herself in her haste to get to her, imploring with a rushed offering of, “Let me,” as she comes up behind her, helping Isabela wear a statement for something she never thought she would want as plain as day around her neck. 

It doesn’t sit as heavy as she thought it would against her chest, nor feel as suffocating. It’s just… there, perhaps because whether she realized it or not, her desire for something like this had always been there; buried beneath years of mistrust and fear. It’s a frightening concept, as it makes Isabela feel even less like she knows herself, but that fear dies out in the wake of Hawke’s gentle touch on her waist, and Isabela reaches up to finger the talisman around her neck as she looks in the mirror.

“What do you think?”

Hawke smiles softly as she presses her body into hers, breasts fitting snuggly against her back as they catch each other’s gaze through the reflection in the glass. “It suits you,” she responds, voice just as soft as her lover’s before she rests her lips against Isabela’s shoulder. 

Isabela purses her lips, eyes fastened on the reflection of the talisman as she delicately twirls it between her fingers. It’s light; almost deceptively so. “When I was young, I watched my mother hand these out to countless women, and I always thought it was the most ridiculous thing,” she tells her with a soft chuckle, eyes briefly resting on Hawke’s in the mirror before they turn back to the pendant around her neck. The pads of her fingers run gently over the raised symbol atop it, and she’s surprised that it makes her feel a little homesick. “Everyone knows magic can’t create life or love, and so I never understood why they spent so much coin on something that couldn’t possibly work. When I was older, I believed that it was because it was just so ingrained in our culture, that it honestly didn’t matter whether it worked or not; it was just something our women _did_. And perhaps that was still a part of it, but I think…” 

She takes a breath then, and a part of Isabela can’t fathom the fact that she’s even saying any of this out loud. But Hawke’s body is warm behind her; comforting in her embrace as strong arms wrap protectively around her midsection, and it gives Isabela a sense of contentment that she never thought she would need from another. It doesn’t make sense, none of this makes sense, and yet it’s happening and it’s real and maybe Isabela doesn’t understand herself as well as she thought she did, because she finds that she’s actually enjoying the feeling of it.

“I think it’s more about acceptance… that you’re ready for things to change; that you’re open to the possibility of your life taking a new path, and the hope that it’ll actually be available to you.” She feels Hawke smile against her shoulder, and Isabela knows that the woman understands what she’s trying to say, and yet she shakes her head and downplays it with a chuckle. “I know that probably sounds ridiculous; maybe I’m more cocked than I thought I was. I can still see straight, but perhaps that’s just deceptive. I did trip over that blasted rug, after all.”

“The rug’s fault, I assure you; it’s always getting in the way of things,” Hawke tells her with a small smirk, her fingers fisting gently in the rogue’s tunic as she catches her gaze in the mirror. She’s silent for a moment, contemplative as her nails drag softly across a small patch of exposed skin on Isabela’s abdomen. The feeling makes her shiver a little, and Isabela leans a little further against the woman standing behind her as Hawke finally speaks. It’s soft, tentative; unsure of how she will be received. “And it’s always… it’s always been available to you, Isabela; you just had to open your eyes and see it.”

Isabela swallows; her throat tight and her stomach heavy with the honesty this conversation entails. They never really did that, her and Hawke; the honesty thing. They joke and fuck and pretend like asinine fools that their relationship of nearly six years is still considered casual, because it’s just easier than voicing anything of worth. It’s been a long time coming, and perhaps that’s why Isabela speaks instinctually, rather than allowing herself any forethought; because there’s a part of her, buried deep beneath her fear and her doubt, that’s tired of it too. 

“I’ve always seen it,” she admits softly. “I’ve just never known what to do with it.”

Hawke chews gently on her lower lip, peering up at her over her shoulder. She’s curious, yet obviously hesitant of the answer to the question she’s about to ask. “…And do you now?” 

Isabela laughs shortly at that; she can’t help it, as she thought it would be blaringly obvious by now. “ _No,_ ” she tells her, because she really doesn’t; this is all so new and overwhelming for her that she has no idea how to proceed, but for the first time in her life, that doesn’t necessarily mean that she doesn’t want to try. “I don’t know what to do with it at all. I feel like I’m going to muck it up somehow; drop it or break it or whatever it is one does when they don’t know how to handle someone’s heart. How can someone like me even be trusted to have something so fragile? It’s inane, Hawke.”

“You think I’m fragile now?” Hawke asks with a disbelieving laugh. “Do you even pay attention when we’re off doing heroic things, or are you solely staring at my arse? I’m beginning to wonder.”

“Not you, you goose,” Isabela sighs, rolling her eyes as she turns to face the other woman. Hawke keeps her arms around her though, and they’re close; so close she can feel the mage’s breath against her skin. “Hearts; they’re stupid, fragile things, easily broken at a moment’s notice, and yet you’ve handed me yours so willingly. And I…” But her voice trails off, and she isn’t sure how to voice what it is that she feels now; what she’s become aware of.

“And you…?” Hawke encourages softly, looking up at her to catch her gaze. Her fingers are still tracing gentle patterns against the rogue’s stomach, and it’s more comforting than she’s sure Hawke even realizes; her touch, her presence, her… everything. 

“And I…” A breath, and honesty flows from her lips as easily as water from a stream, “And I apparently seemed to have misplaced my own, only to find it resting in your hands.”

For a moment, Isabela’s afraid that she worded that wrong. Misplacing her heart isn’t the same as giving it to her, but it was exactly what had happened. She wasn’t aware of it, and yet it seemed that in time it gravitated towards the one thing, the one person that she needed, that she found comfort and solace in. And it sounded so ridiculous, as Isabela’s entire being centered around independence and freedom, and yet there she stood, only now just realizing that she had embarked on something against her nature so long ago that by the time she was aware of it, it was already too late. And Hawke, being Hawke, understands perfectly what it is that she’s trying to say, and smiles at her because she just _knows._ She knows her, and she knows that Isabela would never consciously give her something like that; it just had to happen on its own.

And come to find out, it did.

Fingers tangle in a mess of raven locks as Hawke leans in then, pressing her lips against Isabela’s just firmly enough to warrant invitation. Isabela parts her own as a tongue slides into her mouth, and the sound that’s exhaled is breathy and needy; needy because she needs this, because _this_ is what makes sense to her. Just mouths and fingers and skin, just touching and kissing and feeling connected to someone in a way that doesn’t frighten her. Because sex is easy, sex is simple; it’s the rest of the stuff that’s now found itself tied to it all that makes Isabela’s head spin and her stomach churn.

The mattress indents beneath the weight of her form, and Isabela lets the mage top for once as lips wrap around her pulse point, allowing Hawke to feel the blood pump heavily through her veins as they both shed clothing like a second skin; with ease, and without thought. It’s natural; how they’ve fallen into one another has always felt more natural than it had with anyone else, and Isabela had often wondered why that was. Now she knows; now she knows why their forms always melded so effortlessly, why even in the beginning they touched with the expertise of long time lovers. Isabela had always laughed in the face of fate, but even she can’t deny that sometimes, some things that were never meant to be just happen to fit perfectly together; like pieces from different puzzle boards, that somehow, someway, form together just right and create an abstract of color and utter chaos. 

That’s how it feels now when they touch; chaos, like the world’s spinning under her feet and the only thing she can think to do is hold onto Hawke and hope that her weight anchors her to something familiar. Although to be fair, that could easily be the amount of ale she consumed; it certainly wouldn’t be the first time, nor will it be the last. Yet even still, despite her earlier unbalance, something about finally seeing that which was clearly visible in front of her for so long filled Isabela with a sort of clarity she had never experienced before. It was eye opening; but even more than that, it was sobering.

And so all that’s left, all there is now to feed the chaos around her and the abstract of unmatched colors is _her._ Hawke; she makes the world spin and Isabela’s stomach flip and yet, in the end, a part of her knows that she wouldn’t have it any other way. 

The heat of Hawke’s body scorches through her, causing fire to race through her veins as her fingers curl and nails pierce into skin. She feels the weight of the talisman against her chest, the one thing Hawke opted not to remove from her, and Isabela instinctively grabs onto it when gentle lips fall from her abdomen to between her thighs, causing her back to arch and a soft sound of praise to fall from the base of her throat. Knees pointed towards the ceiling, one hand keeps hold of the gift bestowed on her while the other tangles in a mess of darkened hair, and when Isabela closes her eyes all she can hear is erratic breathing and the unsteady beat of her own heart.

When she comes it’s with a shout and a creatively worded swear, and Hawke chuckles at her unique sense of vulgarity like she usually does, and it feels the same. She doesn’t expect it to; she expects the room to be heavy with the newfound weight their passion now has tethered to it, but instead Isabela feels unfathomably lighter. Hawke’s lips press against the rogue’s thigh then as Isabela struggles to breathe, and she can feel the other woman’s grin begin to etch itself against her skin as the small tremors in her lower body begin to subside.

“You know, someone once had the gall to tell me that it’s unattractive for a woman to look so utterly pleased with herself after she hammers you like a bent nail.”

Hawke smirks, fingertips running gently through the soft patch of hair between the rogue’s thighs. “And what did you say to that?”

“I laughed, and then I fucked him until he cried.”

And so Hawke laughs, and she fucks her again; fingers buried to their knuckle as she pulls another scream from Isabela’s lips and a shudder from her body. Eventually the positions reverse and Isabela’s where she knows best; on top, and in control, and Hawke leaves deep red marks against the skin of her back until its Isabela’s turn to look pleased with herself for what she has done. Hawke hums contently in the skin of her neck as Isabela feels the aftershock of the mage’s muscles contracting around her fingers, the steady rhythm of it unexpectedly matching the beat of her own heart as she lies completely on top of her. She continues to stroke her insides gently until Hawke’s breath hitches in her throat and she whines in need, and Isabela decides to draw one last orgasm from her lover before finally settling in beside her.

She’s on her back, staring at the ceiling as she watches the dim light from the candle cast shadows upon mortar, and words leave Isabela’s lips before she can think to stop them. “Do you ever worry that you’re turning into a tree?”

Hawke snorts as she laughs, rolling on her side to face the woman in her bed. “You’re more cocked than I thought you were, or else I fucked you bloody stupid. A _tree,_ really?”

“It’s a metaphor, you goose,” Isabela responds with mock impatience, rolling her eyes as she turns her head to look at her lover. Her eyes catch Hawke’s, and the mage’s brow furrows as she tries to work out the meaning before being told. Isabela isn’t quite sure she’ll ever understand on her own though, and so she tells her, “I’ve always thought myself to be like a bird; having the freedom to fly to wherever, whenever I choose, to pack up and leave just as quickly as the wind changes direction. Birds make homes, they nest, but it’s only temporary. And yet I’ve been in this Maker forsaken place for so long that all the guardsmen know my face and all the whores know my cunt, and I think I’ve forgotten what it feels like to fly. Worse, like I’ve somehow shed my wings and managed to grow roots in their stead – like some kind of tree, or plant, or whatever else you want to call something that’s growing into some kind of permanent fixture somewhere.”

“Do you know I regularly get asked how _you_ are by people who should never have learned my name, let alone my business?” Isabela continues, finding herself on some sort of tirade now. Her fingers tangle in her hair in frustration, and her eyes find the ceiling once more as truth and uncertainty pour from her lips. “I used to be a shadow, a story to tell to drunkards in a tavern about how I rammed you like a bull in heat before stealing everything that you own, but now I’ve become some kind of visible permanence in this city. It’s bloody unsettling, Hawke, and I don’t—I have no idea what to do with it. None at all.”

Hawke frowns at the admittance, her brow creasing as she looks at the woman next to her. She’s silent for a long moment, and Isabela worries that she hurt her by revealing all of this after they had just found a fixture in one another, but suddenly Hawke’s climbing off the bed and throwing her a robe. As she slips another around her body, she instructs, “Come with me.”

“…What?”

But Hawke doesn’t answer; she’s out the door and Isabela is left with no other choice to put on the robe and follow her. They steal down the stairs, the wood creaking softly underneath their weight before they cross the foyer and head towards the front door. When Hawke opens it the chill in the night air makes Isabela’s hair stand on end, and she pulls the fabric tighter around her form as she follows the other woman out into the yard. 

Isabela’s brow creases as Hawke hunches down, digging carefully in the dirt. “What in Andraste’s name are you doing? We’re going to freeze our tits off out here, you cabbage; come back to bed before your nipples fall off.”

“You have the patience of a fruit fly,” Hawke chides as she continues her task, her hands beginning to stain the color of the earth. “And apparently the observation skills of a drunken simpleton, which is surprising since this was _your_ metaphor. Stop thinking about tits for a second and pay attention; I have a grand point to all of this. Really, you’ll be impressed.”

Hawke finally pulls a flower clear from the ground, roots and all perfectly intact, and Isabela finally realizes what she’s been trying to do; although to be honest, in the dark it was hard to see what the woman was doing in the dirt until she visibly held up her prize to the rogue’s gaze, one eyebrow raised as the moon casts its light on her point. “So you just killed a flower for the sake of a metaphor,” Isabela deduces flatly. “I already know nothing holds permanence when it’s _dead_ , Hawke; was this really the grand point you were trying to make? That flower won’t stay alive unless you plant it somewhere new, and then it’s just placing roots somewhere else; that defeats the purpose.”

Hawke rolls her eyes as she stands, saying nothing as she walks back into the house, her robe flowing behind her in the gentle breeze. Exhaling a frustrated breath of air, Isabela follows behind her, finding Hawke in the foyer as she carefully places the flower in a pot that was too large for the one that already resided in it, sharing its space with the one she found outside. 

_…Oh._

Isabela sees her point now, in all its glaring obviousness that probably should’ve been apparent to her long before this (perhaps the woman really had fucked her stupid; it wouldn’t be surprising in the least, given the raw intensity that they have in the bedroom), and as Hawke hands her the pot she tells her pointedly, “Here’s your portable metaphor, you silly bat. Does it look stuck to you, or shall we take it on a ship and sail to the furthest edge of the earth in order for you to see my point?”

As Isabela chews on the inside of her cheek, eyes fixated on the pot in her hands like she hopes it really does hold all the answers that she had been seeking, Hawke continues, “Plants don’t need to be in one place forever, Isabela, they just need to be in soil; and sometimes…” Her fingers brush delicately over the petals of first flower in the pot, followed shortly by the second as her voice grows softer, the tone much more intimate as she looks up and catches Isabela’s gaze. “Sometimes some plants can even share their soil with _other_ plants in some badly decorated pot that can travel from Orlais to Antiva and back again. And… and we _can_ , you know; we will, if you—if that’s what you want. There’s nothing that really ties me to this place; well, except maybe during those times when you’ve got my wrists all bound up by scarves to the bedposts…” 

She smirks at the memory, and Isabela chuckles softly as she looks back down at the metaphor in her hands. The weight she thought it would have now seems lighter than expected, but Hawke had always been good at that; making light of things that seemed too heavy to bear.

Hawke touches her hand then, just a light brush of fingers and yet even in its simplicity, it’s just as comforting as strong arms around her torso as she keeps eye contact and tells her very seriously, “If you’re suffocating here, then let’s leave. I’ll sell the estate and buy us a ship; we can go wherever you want, _everywhere_ you want. Just say the word and we’re gone.”

And suddenly, Isabela feels the weight of the words, the weight of her promise, and she sucks in a sharp breath at the unexpected feeling of it. We, _us;_ all of these words that Isabela never thought would apply to their relationship are now flowing from Hawke’s lips as easily as water and it doesn’t feel strange. It doesn’t feel _wrong,_ it just feels… real. Like perhaps finally, Isabela’s is seeing the reality of the life she had made with this woman over the last six years; a life that doesn’t end here, when she finally can’t take the suffocation this place brings her anymore and flees, but a life that continues on with Hawke at her side in any place in the world. _Every_ place in the world.

“You’d really do that?” Isabela asks, because a part of her still can’t seem to grasp the magnitude of such an offer. She moves away from her then, placing the plant on a side table as she looks at it and continues, “Trade in your fancy estate for a ship; leave a place where you’re practically royalty to go Maker-Knows-Where and be treated like nothing but a slattern bottom-feeder again? As often as I’ve fantasized about tying you to the mast of a ship and having my wicked way with you, Hawke, pirates aren’t exactly viewed with respect; I don’t think you’re grasping the full meaning of your own offer, as… _tempting_ as it all may sound.”

“First of all, I’d rather we just off some lowlife, slave trading bastard and take _his_ ship so we can just keep all the money for ourselves, but since _someone_ seems to think that’s crude and ‘amateurish’, yes, selling my estate to buy you one is exactly what I’m offering right now,” Hawke begins as she approaches her from behind, sliding arms around Isabela’s torso as a chin rests delicately on her shoulder. “And as for ‘respect’, I’m fairly certain _that_ ship sailed the minute we showed up to that party halfcocked and completely bare arse naked. So really, by now I’m pretty sure that the city would be glad to be rid of me; glad that they no longer have to pretend to like me. I’m sure its tiring for them, being such pompous arse-lickers all the time.” 

Isabela smirks, but places her hands atop the ones resting on her stomach, willing Hawke to stay there. “And what about your other responsibilities here; the constant cat-fighting between the Mages and the Templars? The First Enchanter is expecting your help, _Anders_ is expecting your help; could you really walk away from that?”

“Have you not met me?” Hawke asks with a chuckle, pulling on Isabela’s hand to gently guide her back around to face her. “I’m very efficient; a Champion of getting things done, one might say. By the time I find a buyer for the estate and a decent ship to purchase, all of that will be over and done with.”

“Isabela,” she coaxes then, placing her hand gently beneath the rogue’s chin to garner her full attention. Her gaze is penetrating, burning, and Isabela can feel it even in the deep recesses of her soul. She wants to keep it there, hidden away, her secret indulgence that she can experience whenever she pleases. “Just say yes.”

 _Yes._ It’s such a simple word, but it holds so much more meaning than just one syllable. Yes, she will sail away with her. Yes, she will find her permanence in Hawke, intertwine these roots she’s been growing with hers and yet still have the freedom she so desires because Hawke is a person, not a place. Yes, she will be hers; yes, Isabela will stay with her, be with her, and build a life with her on any and every corner of the Earth. Yes, yes, yes…

“…Yes.”

Such a simple word, but filled with so much meaning as Hawke kisses her, smiles, and suddenly begins to look so much like home.

**\- FIN-**


End file.
